The Last Time I Saw You, You Were Dead
by Pinahn
Summary: What happens when Lassiter is so obsessed with finding a killer that he begins to think like him, dream like him and see victims before they are ever attacked? (Rated for violence and some whump, though nothing stronger than what is depicted in the show. Takes place in the weeks after S6 E11 "Heeeeere's Lassie.")
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. No copyright infringement of publicly recognizable characters, products or services is intended.

**A/N: **This story takes place in the weeks following the events depicted in "Heeeeere's Lassie," where Lassiter is exposed to amyl nitrates. Chapter 1 will follow shortly. Feedback is appreciated. Thanks.

**###**

**PROLOGUE:**

It was all too real.

Nothing scared him. Ever.

But this?

This was too real. Too, too real.

He could still see the scarlet strands of hair on his hands, could still feel the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. A cadence in his head chanted, "Hudson, Hudson, Hudson," as if played from a recording stuck on a loop.

Images blurred of darkness, breathing and screaming. There was the chill of mountain air, the dampness of a rainy night. Foliage was everywhere; branches, trees.

He heard the dirt shifting beneath his feet; twigs snapping under his weight. Above his footfalls, a rhythm beat in his chest and played along with the familiar cadence of "Hudson, Hudson, Hudson."

In a flash, he saw the clearest of the images; a woman, lying lifelessly at his feet, her red hair in a messy, bloody clump of fatality. Her eyes were a faded glass, forever fixed on the sky. Breathlessly, he knelt beside her and brushed a locket of hair away from her pale and bruised neck, revealing a golden necklace with the letters "S" and "K" embroidered on a small unique, charm.

Without warning, the woman stirred under his touch and grabbed his wrist with such force he thought he would scream.

"Save her," she cried, her voice lending to the chill of the crisp mountain air.

The voice startled him awake, leaving him gasping and shaking in a pool of his own sweat.

He could still see the woman's lifeless form. He could still sense her cold, deathly grip. And prevalent in his heart and mind was the persistent cadence of, "Hudson, Hudson, Hudson."


	2. Chapter 1: Sleep, Dream, Wake, Repeat

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. No copyright infringement of publicly recognizable characters, products or services is intended.

**A/N:** Feedback and reviews are always welcome. Thanks very much for reading.

**Chapter 1: Sleep, Dream, Wake, Repeat**

Lassiter had been quieter than usual and he knew it. He had been more surly than usual and he knew it. He ate less, shaved less and generally cared less than usual and he knew it.

He was also sleeping less.

A lot less.

It wasn't that he couldn't sleep, he simply didn't want to sleep. That single moment of weakness would be wrought more with anxiety than relief.

Screaming. Running. Death.

For the past six weeks he had been having nightmares. Childish, stupid, scary nightmares. Dreams darker than anything that he experienced when he was awake. They left him tired, paranoid and cranky. Okay...crankier.

So he worked longer hours and took on extra assignments. When there wasn't enough to keep him occupied at the station, he buried his attention in his home Most Wanted Wall; processing and profiling each suspect until exhaustion would ultimately usher him into the inevitable encounter with the demons of his mind.

So yes, he was irritable and a little foggy and wishing very much that their suspect would stop waisting his time and just confess.

"Sure, I hated him but that doesn't mean I killed him." Tamara Hilton, flattened a ruffle in her dress and looked expectantly at the two detectives. "I used to love Sasha. I still do a little. I didn't do this to him. I couldn't."

Lassiter fidgeted, resting his cheek on the knuckles of one hand and drumming on the table with the other.

Tamara paused at the sudden action and looked desperately to O'Hara.

"I couldn't," she said again, her eyes pleading with the only other female in the room.

"Where were you the night that he was attacked," Juliet asked dutifully.

Tamara twisted the fabric of her dress into a small knot before responding. "I...I was at the movies that night."

"What'd you see?"

It was a simple follow-up question and O'Hara was right to ask it but the statement annoyed Lassiter anyway. He sighed in spite of himself and drummed louder.

"John Carter-"

"Oh please," Lassiter sneered, realizing suddenly that he had lost both patience and interest in the interrogation. "That movie sucked more than your alibi. Anyone dumb enough to pay good money to see that film must also be dumb enough to murder Edward Lawrence and think they can get away with it."

His fingers resumed their rapping on the table and found the strangely familiar cadence of thump-thud, thump-thud.

Tamara looked at him quizzically. "Who's Edward Lawrence?"

The rapping stopped and an almost uncontrollable surge of annoyance welled up inside of him. "Are you seriously going to play the amnesia card with me?" He looked at her as if she had two heads. "It's too late for that, lady. And if you're hoping to plead "stupidity," that won't hold up in court-"

"Carlton," Juliet objected quietly but he was too upset to hear her.

He leaned forward and bore a meaningful stare into the woman. "You were the sole beneficiary in his will which obviously means you had a lot to gain. And sure you loved him. You just didn't love him enough to shake your little habit. I bet you're looking for a fix right now, aren't you?"

"Carlton." O'Hara's voice tried to reach him again but he batted it away.

"What's the going rate for a dime bag these days, Nicole?"

Tamara frowned, her eyes moistening and turning a shade of red. "Um...my name is Tamara-"

Lassiter pointed an agitated finger at her. "You do realize that lying can land you an obstruction charge and I'm sure I can find something in the California Penal Code for you waisting my time-"

"Carlton!" O'Hara grabbed his arm.

"What?"

She leaned towards him, shielding her face from Tamara as she spoke.

"This is Tamara Hilton. She's the ex-girl friend of the victim, Sasha Bryant." She waited for his gaping expression of recognition before returning her attention to Tamara, smiling apologetically.

Lassiter felt a sudden coolness in his chest as his blood rushed to warm his cheeks. He fought away the flush of embarrassment, chewing it deftly between the teeth of a clenched jaw. He swallowed hard before he spoke. "Okay. So, you were at the movies..."

Tamara nodded cautiously.

He waved a hand at her. "Continue."

"And after the movie, I went for drinks at this dive just around the corner from the theater."

"Which theater," O'Hara followed, jotting on her notepad.

"Stadium 15, on Cullen Road. It's the one with the bowling alley."

Lassiter slapped his hand on the desk. "Ha! That's less than four blocks from where the Lawrence body was recovered. That's some alibi you've got there. Sounds like you just bought yourself a thirty-year vacation in the state penitentiary."

Tamara burst into tears. "Oh my god. I didn't kill that guy. I don't even know who he is!"

The door opened suddenly; Vick's presence felt instantly.

"Detectives," she said, pronouncing each syllable as if it required perfect diction.

It took Lassiter a moment to pry his eyes from Tamara. When he finally did he found Karen's rebuking glare beaming into him.

"Outside. Now." She turned stiffly and strode from the room, leaving each of them to collect themselves.

###

* * *

><p>"You know the question now start explaining." Karen crossed her arms in front of her, looking from O'Hara to Lassiter and back.<p>

O'Hara fanned a finger over the pages of her notepad as she looked over her partner, curiously.

Lassiter looked subdued, his eyes searching the ground as if playing the conversation back through his head. "I mistook her for someone else," he said finally, his eyes still unsettled.

"Oh, you think," Karen nearly shouted before reminding herself that they were in the observation room and then again reminding herself that the room was soundproof. She stole a glance at Tamara Hilton who was sitting alone in the room, in complete dismay. "That's the third interrogation you've botched this week, Detective. And need I remind you that it's only Tuesday!"

Lassiter nodded quietly. He still hadn't brought his eyes up from the floor.

Karen took in his appearance. His tie and hair were mussed. Stubble had grown on his usually clean-shaven face and his routinely pressed jacket and shirt looked as if they had been discarded in a hamper and retrieved in a moment of desperation.

She would have to be blind and uncaring to miss the fact that something was wrong with him. She'd noticed the extra hours he'd put in over the past few weeks and had fielded more than a few comments on the state of his ever-souring mood. While she wasn't completely sure what to make of it, she had learned early on not to pry into the personal lives of her detectives. So week after week, she had kept her distance but now his problems were beginning to affect his performance and _that_ was becoming _her_ problem. She also found it completely impossible to separate her maternal instincts from her role as an administrator. Something cried from within her to rescue him from whatever malice he had come across in the last few weeks.

She shook her head as she tried to decide which side of herself would reach out to him: Karen-His-Boss or Karen-His-Friend. She opted for something fitting for both sides of her. "Carlton, what's wrong?"

The question fell on deaf ears. Lassiter stared lazily at the floor, his eyelids sliding until they revealed nothing but tiny slivers of grayish-blue.

"Carlton," Karen said more assertively, content that she had reminded herself about the soundproof glass.

Lassiter snapped to attention, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. "Yes. What?"

Karen shook her head and pointed a stern finger in his direction. "If you can't get it together, I'm going to have to send you home for the day."

"What?" The pitch in his voice hit a new octave. "Why?" He looked to O'Hara for support.

"You're making rookie mistakes. Yesterday, with the Mayor's fishing buddy and then that old lady's dog-"

"That wasn't a dog," he objected passionately, "It was a rat with a collar."

"Tamara Hilton today," Karen continued. "One more outburst like-" She stopped herself and cringed inwardly. "No, if I see anything even remotely like what just happened in there, I'll mandate that you take an entire week off." She leaned forward slightly so that he knew she meant business.

Lassiter's shoulders slumped. "Yes, ma'am." The bass in his voice had returned.

Karen quickly ran the station's staffing and case loads through her head. There were no double-shifts on her radar. No over-night stakeouts to be concerned about. The most traumatizing thing that Carlton had experienced within the last six weeks was being drugged by his neighbor at Prospect Gardens but the effects from that had long since worn off. What's more, he had been promptly cleared for duty just days afterwards. It seemed the only real inconvenience from that ordeal was Carlton's sprained ankle, completely mended and even that was only a minor injury.

She sighed and glanced at O'Hara whose face was contorted into a solemn frown. The poor thing was always caught in the middle.

"When you're finished here," Karen led, checking again on sobbing Tamara, "I need you both to head up to Cherry Springs. A pair of astronomy students uncovered a body off of one of the trails."

She waited for their quiet affirmations then turned to leave, stopping to call over her shoulder. "And Carlton." From the corner of her eye, she saw him straighten and glance in her direction. "Get it together."

She left the room under the utterance of his baritone "Yes ma'am," and headed immediately for her office.

She had a phone call to make.

###

* * *

><p>The trek through the woods of Cherry Springs was strangely familiar. The ground was moist beneath his feet and the dancing leaves of towering trees, sprinkled their collection of raindrops from overhead. Branches clapped and birds sang as if nature itself was clamoring to tell them their tragic story.<p>

Lassiter turned an ear to hear their song but there was a sudden silence about him as the wind weaved in and out of the foliage, whispering an encompassing "hush" into the woods. The cool mountain breeze bit through his blazer and gave him an involuntary chill. He shrugged it off quickly, glancing about him to see if anyone noticed.

When he listened again, all was silent. Only their footfalls and the occasional drawl of their guide, the park ranger, could be heard.

The ranger was at least a good conversationalist, Lassiter would give him that. For a man who was little more than a fully grown Boy Scout, the ranger had a sober take on real police work and didn't try, too hard, to butt in on their process. He ushered them on, dutifully answering O'Hara's questions and following up with a few of his own.

He had driven them as far as the trail's entrance but had taken to walking through the more dense collection of shrubbery. The pace was slow and in the moist ground, their footing was tricky. Mud was already caking up on the sides of Lassiter's dress shoes and he was instantly regretting the decision not to change into his spares.

The conversation (if you could call it a conversation) all but disappeared as they approached the steeper parts of the trail. The only thing any of them wanted to do was focus on their breathing. And those breathes came in heavy pants.

A few steps, a few breaths.

A few steps, a few breaths.

In. Climb. Out. Climb.

In. Climb. Out. Climb.

In. Out. In. Out.

In. Out. In. Out.

There was a rhythm. Some very strange rhythm began to beat in his chest.

Thump-thud. Thump-thud.

Lassiter marveled. He knew this beat. He listened as the tune began to play.

Thump-thud. Thump-thud.

But the words.

What were the words?

"Hudson," he whispered as the world about him suddenly fell into place. The trees were not just any trees. The ground was not just any ground.

No. He had been here before.

His heartbeat quickened and his stomach began to climb into his chest. In his mind, images blurred too fast to process. There was heavy breathing, branches breaking, leaves rustling and the telltale chant.

Hudson. Hudson. Hudson.

He brought a hand to his neck and helped a rather insistent breath escape past the knot of his tie.

"It's one of our steeper trails," the ranger said. He stopped to regard the detective then pointed a calloused thumb over his shoulder at a random collection of foliage. "It's just ahead there."

Lassiter nodded, letting his eyes close long enough to gather his resolve.

A cool hand grabbed his wrist.

In his mind's eye, he saw the woman with her red, bloodied hair. He heard her pleas and felt her grief. He pulled away with a gasp and let his hand hover just over the buckle of his shoulder holster.

He found his embarrassment in O'Hara's startled expression.

"The hell," she said, looking at him aghast.

Lassiter was at a loss for words. The image of the woman was still vividly in his head. He tried, in vain, to displace it with Juliet's visage but the scarlet hair, glassy eyes and shrill scream was a permanent stain in his mind's eye. No amount of blinking was going to wash it away. He searched for an explanation but nothing made sense.

What was wrong with him?

He locked eyes with O'Hara again. She had taken a slight step away from him, her own hand frozen in the space that was once occupied by his arm. Her lips were separated in plain shock and her thin brows were pressing together.

It seemed like the lag in his explanation was becoming just as egregious as his initial response. He pointed quickly at a general spot in the distance, "Up here, right?"

He hardly expected her to answer the question and when she only continued to stare, he set his gaze, collected his dignity and hurried past.

He assumed a pace that was too quick for the ranger or O'Hara to match, using his long stride to create some breathing room and a little space to think. As he walked, he felt familiarity settle on him like a cloak. The moist ground gave way to his footfalls, the leaves and branches snapped beneath his feet. His lungs began to rasp for air and in between each strained breath he could hear his heart beating to the rhythm of, "Hudson, Hudson, Hudson."

In one fleeting moment, clarity flooded his mind and pulled him in a single direction. He followed blindly not stopping to ask himself where he was going or why. He moved quickly, his eyes combing the foliage until they came upon a pair of white sneakers, loosely affixed to a pair of stockinged legs. He trotted the rest of the distance until he was able to see more clearly.

It was her.

Her fixed gaze. Her bloody scalp. Her bruised neck.

It was definitely her.

A gasp escaped as he staggered backwards, reaching blindly for a nearby tree and gripping its trunk as if the ground would drop from beneath him. His lips began uttering words that his mind couldn't comprehend. His eyes strained to see past floating blue spots that were drifting into view.

He sensed O'Hara near him, calling to him but she seemed too far away. A wave of dizziness overtook him as the floating spots grew into a terrifying and quiet black.

When awareness returned, he found himself half-seated on the grill of the ranger's jeep, gripping a lukewarm bottle of water. O'Hara was rubbing his back soothingly and whispering words that he wasn't able to make out.

He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, trying not to see the red-haired woman in his mind; trying not to see the tragedy of her disfigured neck or hear the sound of her desperate voice. He tried to reconcile the two images, how a woman from his dreams could now be dead at his feet. He shivered inwardly as he shook what was becoming his obvious conclusion: He was loosing his mind.

"Have another drink," Juliet said softly, nudging his hand with her own.

Lassiter looked questionably at the bottle. He didn't remember taking the first drink. He tried to piece together the events that transpired from the time that he saw the body until now but he was at a loss. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He wasn't sure how he came to be sitting on the ranger's jeep or even why he was sitting on the ranger's jeep, for that matter.

It was all an uncomfortable blur and that worried him. It also seemed to worry Juliet and that worried him. In fact, he wasn't certain which worried him more, the fact that he was worried about himself or the thought that he had worried O'Hara.

He shook his head wearily, staring at the bottle as if it would answer the questions in his mind. He might have spent a good deal of time trying to reason with it if O'Hara hadn't taken it from his grasp, unscrewed the top then returned it to him, guiding his elbow until the drink was at his lips.

He took a reluctant sip and forced the warm liquid down.

"What happened back there," she asked softly, leaning into him and rubbing his back once more.

Lassiter shrugged as he wiped a dribble of water from his chin. He had never felt like that before. Ever. At least, not sober.

"Exhaustion." The ranger's voice came from behind them. They turned to see him rummage through the front seat and retrieve a small cooler. "I know it when I see it," he said, fishing a hand into the cooler and retrieving a granola bar.

He held the bar out for Lassiter who looked at it repulsively.

"This should help. Unless of course you're allergic to nuts." The older man chuckled lightly and pushed the bar closer.

Lassiter's scowl grew. "Is that your lunch?"

Juliet reached over him, took the bar from the ranger and placed it roughly in Lassiter's free hand. "Just eat it, Carlton. You scared us half to death back there. I don't want to see you like that again." She pulled the drink from his hand and screwed the top on slowly, seemingly lost in her thoughts.

Lassiter played with the granola wrapper, turning it over in his hands as he tried to think of the best way to ask his burning question.

What did happen back there? How was it that he felt that he had seen this before? Why did everything suddenly feel so familiar? How did he manage to lose control?

He pondered a little before summoning his courage and clearing his throat. "What...happened," he stuttered.

O'Hara's eyes shot quickly to him. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"I...don't..." He stammered rather un-artfully and felt like a buffoon. It was nearly a half mile from where the ranger parked and from where they had found the body. The bloody, pale, lifeless body. He remembered seeing it. He remembered feeling dizzy and sick and tormented all at once. But that was all he remembered. Everything from then until now was a blank.

His stomach turned. "I didn't," he swallowed bitterly, "Pass out did I?"

O'Hara's worry rested delicately on her furrowed brows. "No," she said softly, as if her answer might break him.

Lassiter relaxed instantly but tensed again as he watched the unbidden concern grow on Juliet's face.

"What then," he probed.

O'Hara took a moment to respond. She played with the ridges of the bottle cap before setting the water beside her and looking up at him. "Who is Hudson," she asked, finally.

Lassiter's heart skipped a beat. His mouth suddenly went dry. "What?"

"Hudson," she said again, her eyes searching his. "You were saying it over and over again, even while we helped you back to the jeep."

Lassiter's eyes slipped from hers and back to the trail.

Hudson?

It was the word in the rhythm, he knew that much. He knew that he dreamed about it but he didn't know what the word meant. He searched the images that flooded his mind until he saw the dead woman clearly.

Her hair.

Her necklace.

Her cloths.

"Is that the name of the Jane Doe," the ranger offered, squatting so that he was eye level with the two detectives.

Lassiter shook his head, letting his eyes slide closed and pinching his fingers over his eyelids as if he could rub the bloody image out of his mind. "Her name was Patterson," he said dismissively, almost matter-of-factly, not even truly aware of what he had said.

"Did you know her," the ranger followed.

"No," Lassiter grunted. His fingers worked their way to the bridge of his nose where he massaged a growing headache back into submission. For an instant, there was stillness. Peace. His mind was clear. The images were gone. For the briefest of moments, there was absolutely nothing. Then, a hand on his shoulder.

"Carlton!"

He jumped, opening his eyes to see O'Hara regarding him with more worry than before.

"How do you know her name?"

He shrugged, slightly embarrassed to have fallen asleep and slightly perturbed that she had disturbed it. "Gee, I don't know, O'Hara. Wait, yes I do. It was on her name tag!"

O'Hara grimaced, glancing briefly at the ranger then back to him.

Lassiter could feel his patience waning. "What?"

"I didn't see a name tag."

Lassiter scoffed. "It was pinned to her shirt, O'Hara." He waited for her recognition but she only continued to stare quizzically. "Oh, come on," he sang, standing quickly and pointing the granola bar in her direction. "You're slipping."

Juliet stood as well. "Carlton, there wasn't a name tag. I would have noticed a name tag."

"A white plastic thing, pinned conspicuously on her shirt..."

Juliet shook her head. "It wasn't there."

"T. Patterson written in black letters, right across the front..."

"It doesn't matter how much you describe it, Carlton. It wasn't there."

"Come on! It was stuck on her left lapel."

Juliet shook her head, the concern on her face was seeming to grow by the minute.

Lassiter threw his hands into the air.

"If it helps," the ranger began, standing to his feet. "I'm fairly certain that I didn't see it either."

Lassiter resisted the urge to chuck the granola bar at the man's head. He turned, instead, back to Juliet. "I know what I saw, O'Hara."

Juliet frowned, folding her arms across her chest. "Maybe the Chief was right. Maybe you should go home and rest a bit."

Lassiter's mouth dropped open. Her words were like daggers. No, it was worse than that. She was echoing Vick's words and _those_ were like daggers. O'Hara was salting the wound.

Suddenly, it didn't matter what they thought of him. Sure, he may have botched a few cases this week but this wasn't one of them. He couldn't have been more certain of what he saw.

"Fine," he said, turning on his heels and heading back towards the trail.

"Carlton, where are you going," Juliet called.

"Back," he allowed, as he huffed through the shrubs, not caring who followed.

"You should eat that granola bar before you try to tackle that trail again," the ranger called.

This time Lassiter couldn't resist the temptation. He spun around, pulled back his arm and let the granola bar fly fast and hard directly at the ranger's head.

###

* * *

><p>The second look at the body was no different than the first and Juliet was far from happy to make note of it. The fact that she was right only meant that there was something very, very wrong with Carlton. His prolonged exposure to amyl nitrates had done their worst weeks ago. There was no way that he could still be suffering the same side effects now. Could he?<p>

She thought back to that experience and of the crazy woman at Prospect Gardens. She hated that she was not the one to notice the dramatic change in his behavior. That honor rested solely on Shawn and Gus who, strangely, had been a better confidant for him during that time than she had. How did she miss that? She kicked herself internally and glanced over to her partner.

Carlton stood wearily beside her, swaying like the top of a tall tree that threatened to tip over at the slightest wind. He ran a hand over his face and let it rest on closed eyelids.

Juliet sensed his embarrassment but as she gathered a breath to speak, he beat her to it.

"I know what I saw, O'Hara."

Juliet inched closer and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Carlton, I really think you should-"

She stopped suddenly, distracted by his hand which raised quickly into the air, poised as if he would speak. A knowing look illuminated his face and he trotted off towards the greenery just ahead of them.

"Where are you going now?"

He didn't respond, he only continued ahead in a light jog, head tilted towards the ground.

The ranger stepped closer to her. "He's probably going to hit the head." He adjusted the waist of his pants. "I think I may need to go too."

Juliet rolled her eyes in disgust. "We actually have this funny little habit of _not_ peeing at a crime scene." She looked again towards Carlton who had stopped several yards in front of them and was staring intently at the ground.

"He's got something," she whispered aloud before trotting the distance towards her partner; the ranger close behind her. "Carlton, what is it?"

Lassiter looked as if he didn't hear her. He was focussed on the ground, breathing heavily and had brought a hand up to loosen his already loosened tie.

Juliet followed his gaze to the ground. There, lightly covered by soil, was a white name tag embroidered with black letters that spelled the name "T. Patterson." She looked from it back to Carlton who seemed just as surprised by the discovery as she was. In fact, he was more than surprised. He was breathing heavier, almost panting. The hand on his tie had moved to his chest, where he lightly clenched his shirt and began to shake.

"Carlton," she asked cautiously, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his arm.

He flinched, looking to her with a look of terror. "Gotta stop it," he rasped, pausing only to gather a strained breath. "Gotta stop it."


	3. Chapter 2: Answers are Optional

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. No copyright infringement of publicly recognizable characters, products or services is intended.

**A/N:** Episode tag for "Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing" and "Heeeeere's Lassie."

I'm not a doctor and have no medical background so forgive the forensic interplay that takes place later in the chapter. This is fiction after all.

As always, feedback and reviews are welcome. Thanks very much for reading!

**Chapter 2: Answers are Optional**

Lassiter massaged his eyes with the fingers of one hand. They were dry and tired and though they demanded sleep, the soothing circular rhythms from his fingertips were a welcome substitute. Of course, he would rather be driving. Maneuvering about the road would present a much needed distraction from the images in his head.

The blood.

The questions.

The emptiness.

The frustration.

The bruised and forever staring body.

Yes, he would rather be driving.

Instead, O'Hara was behind the wheel; driving much too slowly and glancing at him so frequently that he felt as if he were being profiled. Somehow (and he wasn't sure how) she managed to convince him to let her take the wheel, leaving him riding shotgun in his own vehicle; a thought that sickened him. It was like borrowing somebody else's toothbrush or sharing a piece of gum. But since he could barely remember how he got into the car in the first place, he reasoned that it was just as well to let her do the honors for now. Just for now.

Left to his thoughts, he tried to piece together his latest discovery: The woman's name. T. Patterson. The body. The bloody, pale, dead body.

The woman of his dreams now had a name, which meant that she also had a life and a job and a family. She was no longer just a phantom in his mind. She was a victim with a killer.

A murderer.

But who? Why?

Routine questions seemed out of place where the Patterson woman was concerned. He had a feeling that he knew who her killer was. He had a feeling that he even knew why she was murdered but the answers were as unclear to him as the images in his head. They danced before him like firelight, evasive and cunning, teasing him with a sense of revelation while all the while admonishing him with their sense of familiarity. It was like rereading a book. Everything was old but yet everything seemed new.

Lassiter sighed, letting his head drop back against the headrest as he tried to tame his thoughts.

"Are you ready to talk now?" O'Hara's voice cut in.

"About what?" There was a degree of terseness in his response. Even he could detect it but he was too tired to be overly concerned about it.

"Oh, gee Carlton, I don't know. How about what happened back there?" She was nearly shouting.

He knew that tone and he didn't like it. He opened one eye to glare at her disapprovingly.

Juliet was unfazed. "I have never, ever, seen you like that before. Not even after the crazy chick in your apartment tried to kill you."

His eye slid closed again. He hoped she was picking up his _I'm-ignoring-you_ transmission.

Juliet continued her protest in spite of it. "You told me there'd be no side effects."

"There aren't."

The car jerked off to the side of the road and stopped just as quickly. O'Hara switched off the ignition and turned to him with tears in her eyes. "Like hell," she exclaimed, the intensity in her voice forcing his eyes open again. "You were wheezing and shaking and talking nonsense..."

He did another internal scan, amidst her rant. Why couldn't he remember any of this?

Maybe he did pass out.

His chest tightened and his stomach turned. The mere thought of being that vulnerable in public nearly made him heave. He let his eyes close as he willed away the queasiness and chided himself for being such a pathetic wreck.

_Get it together_, he nearly said aloud.

O'Hara's voice dipped into his thoughts once again. "Carlton!"

He turned to see her regarding him sternly.

"Are you even listening?"

He felt trapped. He wasn't listening but he couldn't tell her that.

_Could_ he tell her that?

He stammered a few syllables as he looked for an out.

"That's it," she said, gripping a hand tightly on the steering wheel and reaching for the ignition. "I'm taking you to a doctor."

"I'm fine, O'Hara," he growled, reflexively grabbing her hand as if starting the car again would put them in mortal danger.

Seeking medical attention was seventh on his list of _The Worst Ways to Resolve this Problem…I_f you could call it a problem and he most certainly was not going to call it a problem. (And yes there was a list. Ninth on that list was to tell his mother. Third, fifth and twelfth was to notify anyone who answered to the name of Spencer.)

Juliet fought his grasp in a determined effort to turn the key. "No you're not."

He gripped her hand more tightly and pulled her towards him. "I am fine," he said slowly and confidently, holding onto her until he felt her begin to relax beneath his grip.

He marveled. She was genuinely concerned for him. Why she was concerned he wasn't quite sure. He hadn't done anything special enough to earn more than a second thought from her. What's more, since becoming partners they'd found themselves in dozens of situations far worse than this, so what was she so worried about? He was absolutely fine. There was no way that he was going to waste her worry on the fact that he wasn't sleeping at night and secretly suspected that he was going crazy.

He let go of her hand. The half-frown on her delicate face told him that she still wanted to know more.

He allowed his head to drop back onto the headrest as he gathered a breath and weighed the decision to let her in.

Where to begin?

"I haven't been sleeping too well," he said in a long exhale.

O'Hara nodded, a hint of sarcasm showing on her lips. "Oh, you haven't been sleeping. That's too bad." She continued nodding as if the news was a satisfactory explanation.

Lassiter nodded along with her, quietly anticipating that he wouldn't get off that easy.

"Carlton, I've been on a million stakeouts with you. I know what not sleeping looks like and I'll give you a hint, it doesn't look like this!"

Her hand moved back towards the ignition but he grabbed it again, an involuntary "No," escaping him in a yell.

She jumped; startled.

Lassiter could feel his heart racing and a general uneasiness settle over him. He took a slow breath, releasing her hand and settling back into his side of the car. "It's not just a few all-nighters, okay. It's been more like a couple of weeks now."

"A couple of weeks?"

He shrugged. "To be honest, I kinda lost track."

"You lost track?"

An eyebrow raised. "Is there an echo?"

O'Hara's face turned a shade of red. "Carlton!"

"What?" Why was she yelling?

"That sounds like a side effect to me."

"It's not. It's not even related."

"You developing insomnia is not related to your overexposure to amyl nitrates?"

"Yes, it isn't." He hesitated. "Or...No, it's not. Pick one." He felt flushed. "Anyway, I'm fine so let's just get back to the station."

She looked at the dash, chewing slowly on her bottom lip. There were more questions coming. He knew it. He prayed silently that he was wrong.

"How'd you know where to find it," Juliet asked, staring into him with intense curiosity.

Lassiter clapped his hands over his face and massaged away a rapidly, growing headache. "Find what," he growled, his voice muffled by his palms.

"The name tag. How'd you know?"

He drew his hands through his hair and let them rest on the top of his head. He had no idea how to answer her question. He had even less of an idea of how he knew where to find it. He just...knew.

"I don't know," he said, relieved to hear himself say those words aloud. "Must've been a lucky guess."

"A lucky guess?" Juliet shook her head. "I can only think of three people who might have known where to find a piece of evidence like that. A psychic, a witness or..." she hesitated, turning sheepishly towards him.

Lassiter's eyes grew wide. "I dare you to finish that sentence."

Juliet bit her bottom lip. "You knew exactly where to find it."

"Like I said, lucky guess."

"But it was more than that."

"Deductive reasoning then."

She wasn't convinced. "Carlton, you first described it as if she was wearing it and it was only after you found out that she wasn't, that you suddenly knew where to find it." She ran her hand along the steering wheel. "I thought that maybe you had seen it when we first came upon the body but then I remembered that we hadn't gone that way." She looked at him expectantly.

Lassiter folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. He was almost too shocked to respond to her open accusation. It wasn't that he didn't understand her reasoning, in fact he completely agreed with it. He had no idea how he knew about the nametag and he couldn't shake the haunting suspicion that he had been at the crime scene before. If he didn't know better (and he wasn't quite certain if he truly did) he'd consider himself a suspect.

But what bothered him was that O'Hara's analysis only allowed for those three ridiculous conclusions:

One. He was the killer. Which he would like to believe that he was not.

Two. He was some addlebrained witness. Which in all likelihood could never happen under his code of ethics, for he certainly would have shot the perpetrator even if he missed the chance at saving the girl.

And three, he was suddenly psychic. The worst of all accusations because of its loose association with that narcissistic dunderhead, Shawn Spencer.

Lassiter sighed deeply. "O'Hara, I don't know how I knew where to find it or why I said what you said I said or why we're even talking about this right now."

"Because what just happened doesn't _just_ happen, Carlton." Juliet raised her voice to speak over his rising ire.

"Well, it must because it did so can we just let it go?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

Juliet made a face. "Because it doesn't make any sense."

"_You're_ not making any sense," he argued.

"What does Hudson mean," she asked pointedly. "You didn't answer me before."

Lassiter suddenly found it difficult to breathe; a sensation that he was becoming much too familiar with. "I don't know," he said, grimacing slightly. "It's just a word that plays in my head all day."

"Why," she asked, her tone softening.

"I don't know," he shouted, nearly irate. He paused to note his flaring temper. Why was he so frustrated? He took a slow, ragged breath. "Look, I'm having strange dreams because I'm not sleeping." He paused, his eyes rerunning the sentence through his head. "Or...I'm not sleeping because I've been having strange dreams."

That sounded better, right?

O'Hara slowly looked him over. Something clearly resonated. "What kind of dreams," she almost whispered.

Involuntarily, the images began to populate his mind. He tried to describe them to her without focusing too deeply. Somehow, knowing that the ghostly pale woman in his dreams was a real victim did little to warm the coldness of her grip or dampen the shrillness of her scream. He tried to move past it by recounting to O'Hara other details about the dream but he found it hard to describe anything without the same eerie feeling washing over him.

He shivered and closed his eyes to will the images back into submission.

"This is childish," he said after a long pause. "It's complete nonsense." He opened his eyes to ground himself in the realness of the afternoon sun. "I close my eyes and it's there. That one word…Some woman…The screaming..."

O'Hara's hand rested gently on his knee. "Maybe you should talk to someone."

Lassiter sneered. "I thought I _was_ talking to someone."

"Someone besides me, Carlton. Someone who can help you sort this out. I've never seen you like this. You've scared me half to death, twice today. I may have missed the boat when that crazy chick tried to kill you but you better be certain I'll never let anything like that happen again."

He turned to see her regarding him thoughtfully and he hated himself for it.

He'd worried her.

He was wasting her grief on a childish problem that, if had been man enough to not let it best him, could have been sorted out much more reasonably; not to mention privately.

He grit his teeth. Never again would he allow her to be this disturbed on his behalf.

"Look, O'Hara," he began, assuming his Head Detective voice and sitting a little taller in his seat. "Thanks for your concern but I'm fine. Now, we need to get back to the station. We still have work to do."

He locked a pair of stern eyes with hers, engaging her in a stare-off. When she didn't turn the key, he glanced at the ignition then back to her with eyebrows raised.

"Fine," she said softly, her voice disappearing beneath the dull roar of the engine.

She shifted the car into gear and they drove on in silence.

###

* * *

><p>"Mr. Spencer."<p>

"Chief."

"Thanks for dropping by."

"Thanks for ringing my bell." Shawn slinked to a seat opposite Vick's desk, leaving her and Gus as the only people standing in the room.

"Oh, please don't sit," Vick chided, grabbing a folder from her desk and passing it their way. "You won't be here that long."

Shawn popped up, taking the folder from her grasp and leafing through its contents. It wasn't lost on him that he and Gus were the only people in her office. "Is this a secret mission, Chief? Because I'm not sensing the intrepid Detective O'Hara or Head Deputy Do-Little anywhere around."

"This was their case," Vick lead, visibly miffed by the verbal jab at her Head Detective. "I've put the detectives on something else for the time being. I figured that you and Mr. Guster could wrap this one up. It involves the Mayor's fishing buddy, Mr. Charles Downer. So, please use a bit of tact."

Shawn tucked the file under his arm and smiled widely. "Not to worry, Chief. We'll use all kinds of tacks, thumbtacks and even pushpins if we have to. And if we run out of those, we'll use some Scotch Tape and Poster Putty. Though, in full disclosure, that may require a little extra spending money and a day-trip to Staples." He pointed a thumb at Gus. "Gus has a rewards card though, so we're totally covered."

"Fifteen percent off," Gus added, proudly.

Vick nodded slowly, clearly uncertain how to respond to their banter. After a brief moment, she waved a dismissive hand. "That's all, thank you. Now, if you'll both excuse me, I'm expecting a call." She returned to her desk and busied herself with paperwork as Shawn and Gus sauntered from the room.

Once they were both out of earshot, Shawn slapped Gus hard on the arm.

"Owe!" Gus pulled away and rubbed his arm tenderly. "Shawn, what did we say about using your words?"

"Dude, we need to get on Jules' and Lassie's case." He stole a glance at each of their desks. Juliet's was neat as a pin; nothing on it drew his attention to what they might be working on. Lassiter's desk on the other hand, was a mess; littered with files and coffee stains. From the looks of it he was working on everything from cold cases to misdemeanors.

"We already have a case, Shawn." Gus started through the bullpen with Shawn on his heels. "As long as the check clears, it doesn't matter what we're assigned."

"Of course it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"It does when ours is boring and theirs is awesome."

Gus stopped and threw him an agitated stare. "How do you know that ours is boring? We haven't even started it yet."

Shawn sighed. "Gus, don't be the yellow cake in a Black and White Cookie because your life would be a lie…A moist, delicious lie." He slipped the folder to Gus and watched him thumb through it. "The Mayor's buddy's boat is missing and wait for it," he put two fingers to his head, "The house keeper did it."

Gus looked at him, surprised. "How do you know that?"

"The house keeper always does it. They're like butlers, right? It's a part of their secret code."

Gus frowned. "Uh, I don't think that's going to work, Shawn."

Shawn pointed at the file and waited for his friend to continue reading. "No alarm, no sign of break-in and she had the only other key. What's more she is an avid boat fan and was applying for her own license. Clearly she was overcome by Look-But-Don't-Touch syndrome."

Gus looked up from the file. "There's no such thing and even if there were, it would imply that she _didn't_ do it."

"Dude!" He was growing anxious. "She did it, okay? It's all right there. They already have enough to go on." He waited for Gus to finish reading the report then look to him with satisfaction. "Cool. Now, let's find Lassie and Jules before the slushy truck comes."

A wide grin grew on Gus' face. "I hear that," he echoed, as he slipped Shawn a fist bump, slapped the file closed and followed him down the hall.

###

* * *

><p>"You'll be pleased to know that there was a definite match to one Teresa Patterson." Woody smiled broadly as he slid the sheet from the red-haired woman's body.<p>

"Why would I be pleased to know that," Carlton asked, his mood as sour as ever.

Woody looked cautiously to Juliet who pursed her lips and shook her head subtly. "No reason," he said with uncertainty, returning his attention to the body. "It appears she died of a skull fracture-"

"She was strangled to death," Carlton interrupted, his hands folded tightly across his chest.

Juliet bit her lip. She knew that Lassiter was known for drawing quick, obvious conclusions but she wasn't too comfortable with his level of accuracy on this case. Whether he dreamed it or not, he was speaking with such authority on so many details, it was becoming increasingly difficult to believe that he wasn't at the scene of the original crime.

"Her neck was fractured," Carlton continued, moving closer to the victim. "It's faint but you can see the disfiguring just under her bruises here and here." He pointed at the bruised area around the woman's neck.

Woody and Juliet looked at the body more closely.

Woody grit his teeth and nodded. "You are spot on, Detective. The hyoid does seem out of place." He chuckled nervously. "How did you catch that? I mean it's only slightly disfigured. I certainly would have guessed some sort of trauma due to the tissue damage but I thought the skull fracture was a much more traumatic injury."

Woody beamed at Lassiter, waiting for a reply but he heard nothing. The detective held his place opposite the table with eyes growing dim. He breathed a deep breath and brought his hand to his head.

Juliet caught the movement instantly, her own insides doing a summersault as she saw him sway to one side as if he might fall over.

"Carlton," she called, watching him shoot to attention.

"There was a struggle," he mumbled as if being jolted awake. "Check her hands," he continued, succumbing to a yawn.

"Right," Woody said quickly. "I was going to do that anyway. It's my favorite part. I like to pretend that I'm giving a mani pedi."

Juliet made a face, fighting the queasiness that Woody's mental image brought.

The door opened behind them, spilling Shawn and Gus into the room.

"See Gus, I told you this wasn't the way to San Jose." Shawn chuckled overtly and slapped Gus on the arm.

Gus grimaced and pulled away. "I said use your words!"

Shawn's smile faded. "I did use my words."

"No, you hit me!"

"After I used my words."

Gus continued to rub his arm. "Dude, use your words instead of hitting me!"

Shawn nodded as if the revelation was news to him. "Oh, I got it now. No worries, buddy." He slapped Gus' arm again before facing the others with a smile. "Hey guys. Whatcha doin'?"

Lassiter sighed and rubbed his neck. "The same thing we always do whenever there's a body, Spencer."

Shawn moved closer to the table. "Scratch your heads and say to yourselves, where's that devilishly handsome psychic detective and his chocolate-flavored friend?" His retort earned him a scowl from almost everyone in the room but seeming not to notice (or care) he turned his attention to the woman on the table. "Who's she?"

Lassiter turned to Woody meaningfully. "Let me know what you come up with. I'll be at my desk." He huffed from the room, brushing past Shawn and Gus along the way.

Shawn looked after him. "Gus, make a note. Lassie's cranky. It must be Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or-"

"Shawn." Juliet rolled her eyes. The boys routinely teased each other openly and while she wasn't exactly a fan of it, she rarely stepped in so long as they kept it light. Her biggest exception to the name-calling was when one or the other wasn't present. She wouldn't let Shawn tease Carlton when he was away any more than she allowed Carlton to tease Shawn. (Though if she were honest, she did let Lassiter get away with it more often than Shawn did. After what would often seem like a public spectacle from Shawn, a little venting from Lassiter, once they were alone, seemed to be understandable.)

Woody regarded the boys and smiled broadly. "Actually Shawn, Detective Lassiter has made quite the discovery today. Not only did he accurately identify the victim, he made a key observation about her cause of death." He chuckled awkwardly. "He couldn't have been more spot on if he'd killed her himself."

"Woody!" Juliet shot him a scolding look. It was bad enough that she had nearly suggested the exact same thing but to hear someone else say it just made it sound vulgar.

Woody hung his head woefully. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Shawn's interest was peaked. "What," he said through a nervous laugh.

Juliet rolled her eyes and started from the room. "Nothing, Shawn."

Shawn followed with Gus right behind him. "We're suspecting Lassie of murder?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Gus added too whimsically.

"Don't be absurd," Juliet said quickly, navigating her way through the halls and wishing that she could lose them down some mystical secret passageway.

"It's not as if it hasn't happened before," Gus said from behind them. "I'm still not totally convinced he didn't kill Chavez."

Juliet stopped cold and turned to Gus, her betrayal hanging in her eyes. "Gus, that was Drimmer and you know it."

Gus stood his ground. "Not for certain. Besides, your perspective of a person changes dramatically once they've chased you through an entire apartment building, wielding a sword."

"Gus is right," Shawn said, raising a hand to tag his best friend; a move that Gus dodged. "Lassie went Uma Thurman on him. Gus is probably the only one here who deserves the right to pass judgment."

Juliet sighed and started off down the hallway again. "I'm sorry Gus but you and I both know that Lassiter would have never actually hurt you."

"I beg to differ," Gus said dismissively, bringing up the rear.

"So, seriously," Shawn cut in, "We think Lassie did it?"

"No one thinks that," Juliet sighed. She was beginning to lose her patience.

"Woody seems to," Gus commented slyly.

Juliet let a slight growl escape and spun back towards the boys. "Look guys, Carlton has been out of sorts for the past few weeks. He may be tired and cranky and may seem to know an awful lot about this case but he is by no means a suspect. Got it?"

Shawn and Gus glanced at each other before returning a knowing look to her and nodding hesitantly.

Juliet threw her hands into the air and continued back upstairs.

When she reached the bullpen, she found Carlton sitting at his desk, head in his hand, eyes closed. She slowed her pace and moved softly across the room as if her footsteps might wake him.

"Oh look, Lassie's sleeping," Shawn declared from just behind her. "He looks like me in the ninth grade."

"And the tenth, eleventh and twelve," Gus added.

"Come to think of it, that was me in summer school too."

"That's probably why you had to go."

"Maybe-"

"Guys," Juliet half-whispered, motioning wildly for them to lower their voices. "Just leave him alone for a few minutes, okay."

Vick's door opened at the utterance of her words and Juliet cringed as she watched the chief step through it, heading straight for Carlton's desk.

Gus immediately picked up on the impending doom. In one fluid motion, he leaped into the center of the room and pointed an energetic finger in the opposite direction of Lassiter. "Oh, my gosh," he shouted, far too loudly. "Is that Stonewall Jackson?"

Vick, along with the rest of the bullpen, paused to regard Gus curiously. (Except for Dobson who actually followed Gus' gaze with anticipation.)

"Really," Shawn quipped, shaking his head. He joined Gus in the center of the room and brought the fingers of one hand to his head. "What Gus meant to say is that we have solved the case of the Mayor's friend's missing dingy and we'll gladly share our findings with each and every one of you after a brief prayer. Would you all please bow your heads and close your eyes? Oh look, Lassie started already."

Vick looked towards Lassiter and shook her head in disappointment. "Detective," she shouted, startling Carlton so much that he nearly fell out of his seat. She looked shortly around the room and then beamed into him, "My office. Now."

She walked from the room, leaving a quiet bullpen and a confused head detective looking after her.

###


	4. Chapter 3: As Loud as Silence

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. No copyright infringement of publicly recognizable characters, products or services is intended.

**A/N: **Episode tag for "Ghosts."

Again, I am not a doctor so here is a disclaimer for more of the medical interplay that takes place later in this chapter. Please enjoy and as always, thanks for reading.

**###**

**Chapter 3: As Loud as Silence**

Karen walked from window to window, quietly drawing the blinds until the room was in near darkness. She turned to find Lassiter watching her curiously, his bloodshot eyes straining to follow her every move.

She softened. "You looked as if the light was hurting your eyes." She sat in the chair beside him. "Is that better?"

He nodded slowly, still guarded. He clearly expected some sort of reprimand.

What he could have possibly done (or thought he'd done) in the few hours that he had been off-site, she would never know. But then again, he was always good at blaming himself for any inadequacy.

Maybe it was their earlier conversation that had him on edge. She'd reasoned that he had given her words a great deal of thought. He didn't want to be associated with shoddy police work any more than he wanted to be forced into a leave of absence. It was that very truth that she had used as her justification for the well-placed phone call. She would hang her hat proudly on the fact that she was looking out for his best interest. He was going to kick and scream and fight her every inch on this but the matter had to be settled; like it or not (and he was sure to be firmly planted on the side of _not)_.

She studied his drooping eyes. "O'Hara told me that you haven't been sleeping."

Lassiter seemed a bit put off by that statement. He drew back into his chair, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't pry. And just so I make myself perfectly clear, I am not prying. But I am a bit concerned." Karen watched him continue to draw into himself. It was only a matter of time before he would shut her out completely. She might have to don her Chief-hat sooner than she thought.

She eased on a layer of her authoritative self, tensing her neck and intertwining her fingers as she spoke. "I told you earlier today that you needed to get it together or I would send you home." She allowed that to sink in for a bit, letting his thoughts marinate in the power of her silence. "Well, I'm going to amend that statement slightly."

He braced himself, sitting perfectly upright and rigid as if her words had frozen him into a statue of a man.

"Madeleine Spencer has graciously consented to spending a few hours with you this week and next."

Lassiter's mouth dropped open and his eyes grew as wide as if he had been punched in the stomach. He looked as if he might say something but he only stared in silence.

"To make it worth her time, I've asked her for assessments on some of the officers as well. So there's no need for you to feel singled out."

Karen paused to allow him the opportunity to respond. For a while he said nothing; he only continued to search for words with his mouth gaping. When he finally did speak (or at least made an attempt to), he stumbled over something that sounded like "what" or "why."

Not being fully certain of which he was trying to say, Karen took a guess. "Dr. Spencer did a fine job on your last assessment and frankly, I thought you two hit it off." She paused again.

Lassiter was still aghast. After a few more moments and a few more stuttered syllables, he finally found his voice. "Chief," he shrieked.

_Yes, he was definately camped on the side of not. _

Karen soldiered on. "As per usual, your sessions are completely confidential and I want you to take as much time as you need."

"You can't do this," he said defiantly, a hint of ire showing in cheeks.

Karen laughed to herself, mentally turning up the dial on her internal authority-meter. "I can and _you_ will," she said, matching his ire with some of her own. "Your options are clear, Detective. Either you work this out or you ride this out away from my station, on your own time. The choice is yours. But no matter what your decision, I will not have this continued downward spiral of poor performance from my senior detective. Is that clear?"

Lassiter pinched his eyes closed and looked as if he was fighting a grimace. His mouth formed a tight line as he no doubt reasoned which would be the lesser of two evils. "Fine," he growled, releasing a hard, slanted glare into the floor.

Karen smiled internally, skillfully masking her contentment behind an authoritative expression. "Good," she allowed. "She'll be here within the hour."

She stood and walked to her office door, opening the blinds first to dispel the collection of uniforms that always seemed congregate just outside when a good lecture was taking place. Once they scattered, she opened the door and turned back to Lassiter who was sitting sullen and rubbing his chest.

"I've secured the lounge," she said, watching him nod slowly then pick himself up from his chair and drag himself from the room; each step a dreadful thud.

He didn't look at her as he walked past. He didn't lock eyes with anyone in the bullpen. He just stared intently at the floor, never looking up. The only sound Karen heard was his loud huff as he dropped back into his desk chair.

She walked back to her own desk, balancing a sense of heaviness with a sense of relief. She was still worried about him but she knew that she had to trust the process. Just now, she'd thrown him a rope and it was up to him to pull himself back in. No matter how much she wanted to, she knew that she couldn't do that part for him.

###

* * *

><p>Madeleine Spencer sat in silence, smiling warmly from her side of the room. Ordinarily the dainty upturn of her lip might have been enough for him to lower his guard but she had been smiling like that since the moment she entered the room. It was becoming more frightening than friendly.<p>

Lassiter squirmed under her gaze and cursed his luck. "This is such a waste of time," he thought to himself, settling into the seat cushion.

"Why do you think that?"

Madeleine's voice caught him off guard. His eyes snapped towards her.

Did he say that out loud? He could have sworn that he didn't.

Her smile grew. "You look confused."

_Dodgy, old woman. What game was she trying to play?_

He shifted slightly, crossed one leg over the other and let his arms fold tightly across his chest. There was no way that this woman was going to win. Not this time. Not again.

His eye narrowed. "Don't you have something else that you could be doing right now?"

"I canceled everything. Karen said this was urgent."

Lassiter sneered. "Let's cut to the chase. I'm fine." He was curt but thought nothing of it. "I had to go through this song and dance six weeks ago. I was fine then and I'm fine now."

"Six weeks ago," Madeleine seemed suspiciously unaware. "That was the incident at your apartment wasn't it?"

He shrugged. It felt a bit childish but he didn't care. If she already knew then he would have nothing to say. If she didn't know then he would say nothing. It was as simple as that.

The silence passed between them. Surely she was testing his resolve.

He checked his watch. Why was time moving at a snail's pace?

His eyes found their way back to hers. Madeleine gave him a slight nod, her gaze unwavering. He cursed under his breath. _Crafty woman. _She was almost as bad as his mother.

Fine, he'd answer her but only to break the tension of her eerily pleasant stare!

"Yes," he nearly shouted, feeling his shoulders tense so much that it sent a tingle down his spine. "Honestly, you're like McNabb at Christmas." He huffed a sigh. "I was exposed to amyl nitrates for an extended period about six weeks ago. I had some weird dreams and tried to kill Guster but I'm perfectly fine now."

"Except for the fact that you still aren't sleeping."

Her words gave him pause. "How did you know that I wasn't sleeping," he stuttered, half expecting to hear that Karen had briefed the female Spencer on everything that she had squeezed out of O'Hara.

Madeleine smiled warmly. "You look tired," she said softly. "You also nodded off slightly when I was telling you why Karen called me today. Which is unfortunate because you missed me saying that I accepted her offer to work here full time."

Lassiter's eyes grew wide. His hands found a steadying grip on the seat cushion.

Madeleine chuckled, a hint of amusement resting on the tops of her cheeks. "There was no such conversation, Detective. I was only joking but to prove a point."

"Dear God, what's that?" His heart was still in his throat.

Madeleine's expression sobered. "The point, Detective, is that sleep is a very valuable tool. Unlike food or even water, your body cannot function properly without sleep. Irritability, memory loss and adrenal fatigue are just some of the side effects that can be expected."

She paused as if waiting for him to loosen his death grip on the seat cushion, which he did but only begrudgingly. He had a brief thought of gripping his sidearm instead.

"I could recommend something to help you sleep. Melatonin, for example."

He grimaced at the thought.

"It's a supplement not a drug," Madeleine interjected. "The idea is that once your sleep levels are back to normal, the other side effects will go away as well."

"And the dreams," he asked, suddenly realizing that he spoke without thinking.

Madeleine's brow furrowed and her head cocked gently to one side. "What dreams, Detective?"

Yes, she had suddenly struck gold_._ _Great job, moron_.

Lassiter stared at the floor, weighing the consequences of his confession. If he told her, would she just have a good laugh then tell him to grow up and stop watching scary movies? Would she report out to Karen that Santa Barbara's Head Detective was no longer fit for duty because he was so squeamish about crime scenes that he was now having nightmares about them? Or worse yet, would she see nothing at all wrong with his dreams and tell him, in the most callus of ways, to just deal with them?

Even though they terrified him...

Why did they terrify him?

He'd seen death rear its head in a hundred different ways on thousands of cases. He'd pulled together profiles on murderers, rapists, serial killers and arsonists. All of Santa Barbara's bottom feeders were either sitting in a mound of paperwork on his desk or posted on his home most wanted wall. And if that wasn't enough, he could add his own experiences to the list. In his tenure as a cop he had been held hostage, drugged, framed, stalked and concussed. He'd even been divorced for crap's sake. Real life was like a swift kick to the groin. How could a silly little dream bring him to his knees?

The more he thought about it, the less he felt like saying anything at all.

"Forget it. They're just dreams," he muttered, feeling the weight of his non-confession press upon him.

"Like the one with you hiding under the towel at the pool?"

He hated that she remembered that story and didn't bother trying to hide his disdain.

"Or perhaps it's something worse than that," Madeleine continued, seemingly immune to his glare.

A small laugh escaped. "Yeah, much worse."

Madeleine seemed to light up.

He shifted in his chair, realizing his mistake. "I mean." He searched desperately for a way to unsay what he just said, which was: _Thanks for all of your work three years ago when Karen thought that I was in bad shape. You'll be pleased to know that I am now certifiably insane…and possibly a murderer…And maybe not in that order._

With that brilliant insight, there were sure to be more counseling sessions. Madeleine would report to Vick who would promptly make him seek official psychiatric treatment. After that, he would be considered unfit for duty, relieved of his badge, watch his partner get reassigned and witness the entirety of Santa Barbara get overrun by that slushy-sipping psychic and his supremely-cowardly sidekick.

He blindly massaged away the ghost of a pain in his chest.

"Detective?" Madeleine's eyes drifted deliberately to his hand. "Are you in any pain?"

Lassiter paused and followed her gaze to his own hand, resting awkwardly on his chest. He let it drop back to his crossed arm and tapped a nervous finger on his bicep. "No. I just..." _Sound like a moron and look like an idiot._ "I..."

The truth was perched on his lips waiting to leap into the air but he was both too ashamed and too afraid to speak. He drew back into the couch once more, checking his watch. _A moment of time with this woman was like being trapped in a vortex. _

"It's alright, Detective. I'm here to help you relieve stress not add to it." Madeleine reached into the bag at her feet, pulled out a small piece of paper and began scribbling on it. "Recalling these dreams seems to produce a noticeable level of anxiety for you," she said under the rhythmic scratches of her pen. "If or when you feel comfortable enough to talk about it, I will be more than happy to listen." She folded the paper over once and handed it to him.

Lassiter looked the paper over, noting her fine penmanship. Each deliberate pen stroke conveyed a level of calm and control. It reminded him of how deeply they had connected during their last session together. He might have opened up even more to her back then if it had not been for the unfortunate reality that she was Shawn Spencer's mother.

"With that said," Madeleine continued.

He returned his attention to her.

"I still highly recommend you getting some sleep. I've written down some tips for that as well." She pointed a finger at the note before letting her hand rest in her lap, poised daintily over the other; then she straightened her back, tilted her head and smiled.

Lassiter's eyes danced around the room. It was quiet again; the uncomfortable quiet that was sure to lead to more awkward confessions. _Time to end this._

"Is that it," he asked gruffly.

Madeleine nodded. "If you have more to say, I am certainly here to listen."

Rays of hope began to shine and an angelic host began to sing. Lassiter slapped his hands on his knees and stood quickly. "Nope. I'm good." He dashed from the room before Madeleine had a chance to stop him.

###

* * *

><p>The air was crisp, the streets were quiet. Somewhere in the distance, there was a continuous whoosh that crescendoed in uncertain intervals. Light pooled in silver blots on the glistening pavement of the almost forgotten parking lot. An old brick wall, adorned with indiscernible symbols from a local street gang, enclosed the square space whose only visitor was a rusting brown car waiting to be brought to life.<p>

From behind him, the dainty footfalls of dress shoes met his ears and soon after, appeared the shadow of their unsuspecting owner.

Tall and slender, the woman stepped into view. She was seemingly unaware of his presence, tragically unaware of his intentions and distracted by an unknown article buried deep inside of her handbag. Head down, arms tangled, she fretted unaware; walking blindly and slowly towards the awaiting brown car.

An immense sense of mortality encompassed him. He didn't reason why, he just followed an overwhelming impulse.

_Kill her._

In one fluid motion, he rushed towards the woman, overtaking her in an effortless clasp. Her terrified scream was muffled almost instantly as she collapsed backwards onto the ground, her once distracted limbs rising to grab the wrists of his aggressive hands. He counted slowly, pushing and squeezing until her body went limp beneath his grasp.

She released one single word with her final breath; a whispered and haunted "Hudson" that seemed to hang in the air unwanted and forgotten like a light fog set on by a cool autumn night.

He watched life transform into stillness as her body, just like the world about him, grew cold and dark. Loosening his grip on her bruised neck, he slid his hand to the locket resting loosely on her chest. It was a small, golden emblem with the initials S.K. He ran a hand over the trinket as if it was his own lost treasure now found.

As he let it settle between his fingers, both it and the woman disappeared and he found himself standing at a dimly lit table. A single, naked lightbulb shone from a fixture overhead and cast a yellow beam on several small lockets gathered in a pile, on the table below. He leaned in closely, noting six golden charms marked S.K. Beside them was a metallic S.B.P.D shield encased in leather.

The shield shone with a golden brilliance, its badge numbers too small to discern. It made the necklaces pale in comparison with their blemishes of hair, dirt and blood. He ran a hand over each of the lockets wondering which belonged to whom. As he held each of them, he could see the faces of women in his mind's eye; some familiar, others new. Each of them danced about his head chanting their unforgivable words in haunted whispers: "_Hudson. Hudson. Hudson_."

"Not again," he moaned. The word alone turned his stomach, an entire chorus was maddening. He clapped his hands over his ears and implored for relief.

A sharp bang from the door behind him silenced the sounds in his head. He turned to see hot, white light pouring into the room; its luminance obstructed by a bodily form standing inside the threshold. The figure loomed before him, tall and dark, saying nothing but observing everything with eyes that seemed to glow.

Lassiter willed himself to react. He tried reaching for his weapon or even running from the room but his limbs seemed numb and cold, paralyzed with fear. Against all instincts he stood waiting. Wondering. Curious.

"Who are you," he stammered, his tongue feeling as heavy as his legs.

The figure approached slowly, faceless and intimidating.

He tried again, his confidence slipping with each increasing beat of his heart. "What do you want?"

The figure's only reply was in an advance.

One step.

Another.

Then another.

Lassiter was bound to the floor. Curiosity was replaced by terror and he wanted nothing more than to run. He closed his eyes to plead with himself, "Now. Now. Now!"

In an imperceptible move, the dark figure collapsed upon him and pressed him tightly against the wall.

His breath trapped in his chest. His heart climbed into his throat.

"No," he choked as he tried to move a pinned arm to help free himself.

The figure pressed against him more, leaning into him with heaviness and purpose. "You're already too late," it said in a venomous rasp.

The phrase pained him more than the dreaded chant. Lassiter craned his neck to glare into the glowing eyes of the shadowy figure.

It pressed on him mercilessly and relentlessly, leaning closer to repeat its doomed phrase. "Already too late..."

Lassiter squelched defiantly, kipping himself off of the wall and pushing the figure from him.

His hand found its place around his Glock and leveled it obediently in front of him. The cold steel was familiar, its touch so real that it gave him pause. He glanced at his hand, sensing the weight of the steel and the feel of the handle as it rubbed against his palm. Something was off.

He looked again at the room. The figure, the table and the light were gone. He was alone but not alone in a place that seemed vaguely familiar. A slight movement beside him caught his attention and he turned towards it, gun drawn.

"Carlton," Juliet shouted, pushing two palms in his direction.

Lassiter watched her curiously and felt reality slowly dawning. In a moment's time, sleep relinquished control and full awareness returned. Everything made sense again; the ceiling, the walls, the faint aroma of coffee brewing somewhere in the world where smell was no longer a forgotten sense.

O'Hara took a small step towards him, her palms still outstretched. "Carlton," she led, looking from him to his gun and back.

He followed her gaze. Having completely forgotten that he had been pointing his weapon at her, he instantly returned it to its holster. "Sorry," he muttered.

Juliet dropped her hands and continued her slow pace towards his side of the room. "Were you sleeping?"

He couldn't answer her. The images in his mind were still too real. He closed his eyes, as if conjuring new images would help erase the old ones. He felt some give in the mattress and turned to see Juliet sitting next to him, looking at him with knowing eyes.

"I told you I could handle the paperwork from today. You could've gone home. You didn't have to sleep _here_."

He managed a grunt before realizing that he didn't know where "here" was. His eyes scanned the room once more, noting the cell bars, the small rusting cot, the cement floor...

"Why am I in a holding cell," he asked aloud, though the question was mostly directed towards himself.

"That's what I'd like to know." Her brow furrowed. "You're soaking wet," she said, pulling at the front of his dress shirt until it was no longer adhered to his chest. "Did you have that dream again?"

His heart fluttered at the thought and he fought the urge to close his eyes or rub his chest. "A bit different," he managed, choosing to distract himself by rubbing a sweaty palm across a sweaty forehead.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"No." He nearly cut her off and felt like a jerk but there was nothing enticing about reliving his night terrors. Experiencing them once was more than enough.

O'Hara pursed her lips. Her eyes moved away from him and about the room as if she wanted to tell him something. He watched her worried face grow more and more perplexed and hated himself for every wrinkle in her brow. It was troubling to see her so troubled.

"I told Vick," she said suddenly and quickly, almost forcing the phrase into one single word. "She asked how things went and then how you were doing. I didn't tell her everything. Just that you weren't sleeping and-"

"I know," he interrupted. "It's okay. She set me up with Madeleine Spencer. We spoke already."

Juliet heaved a sigh. "That's such a relief. How'd it go?"

He shrugged. "It could've gone worse."

"What did she say about your dreams?"

He hated that all roads led back to that subject. Naturally, O'Hara was concerned but he wanted to avoid that conversation at any cost. Especially now, when it was all so fresh.

He parried. "We mostly discussed the not-sleeping thing."

Juliet offered a soothing smile. "Well, then I'm glad that you took her advice and got some rest."

He grunted, standing to stretch a tense neck and back. "I wouldn't call it that," he said mid stretch. "She suggested some sort of over the counter, voodoo crap which is probably nothing more than old-school, hippie magic. But I guess it worked. It's been a couple of weeks since I actually slept through the night so..."

Juliet snickered. "Through the night? Carlton, it's barely ten."

He swallowed a bitter wave of discomfort. "In the morning?"

Juliet laughed again. "P.M., Partner. You could sleep another eight hours if you wanted and you still wouldn't be late tomorrow morning."

Her words triggered an emotional response.

_Late?_

His heart started to beat its now familiar rhythm. His eyes locked on a spot in front of him as the images of his mind projected their vivid portrayal of his dreams. He could sense the figure's presence and could hear those taunting words.

_"Too late. Too late."_

The pain grew in his chest, his lungs screamed for air.

"We're running out of time," he heard himself say.

"You're already too late," mocked his heart, in reply.

"No," he cried, feeling himself pinned to the wall, feeling the figure pressing upon him.

An undefinable black grew from the corners of his vision and threatened to overtake him. He closed his eyes to hide from it, ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring the rhythm in his head.

Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe.

On his arm, he felt O'Hara's gentle touch and heard her voice in his ear. He strained to focus on it, to focus on her. He needed to hear her, to feel her, to know that he wasn't losing control. Not again.

"Breathe, Carlton. Breathe," he heard O'Hara say. Her voice was muffled and distant, as if she was speaking to him from the deep end of a pool. She said the phrase over and over, clenching and shaking his arm until his lungs obeyed.

In. Out. Steady. Slow.

His ears searched for the sounds of each continuing breath.

Steady. Slow.

Steady. Slow.

_Breathe. Breathe. _

_Just breathe. Just breathe._

Stillness followed; a strange, quiet stillness accompanied by an equally strange sense of relaxation.

_Did it work?_

He opened his eyes slowly, taking a cautious glance around the room. Everything was in its place; everything except for the concern on O'Hara's brow that is. That wasn't supposed to be there.

His heart jumped in earnest to comfort her. "I'm fine," he said quickly, though more to her brow than to her.

Juliet shook her head, never letting her eyes drop from his. "No, you're not," she said, her voice a delicate quiver. "Something is definitely the matter with you."

He slid his arm from her grasp and took a step back, a gesture that he hoped would convince her that he was in full control of the situation. "I'm fine," he said again, nodding his head reassuringly. "I just," he stopped to think once more about the images in his head. There was no mistaking the feeling that was coming over him. "I just need to stop this from happening."

Juliet took a step closer to him and returned her hand to his arm, her own limbs beginning to shake with unexpressed emotions. "Stop what from happening," she pleaded.

Carlton let out a deep sigh and grimaced. "There's going to be another body tonight."

###


End file.
